Chapter 40: The Girl Who Wants to Rent a Room
"So what I heard," Chandler said, with the precise delivery of a man who had been waiting for his moment, "was a group of women over there talking about wanting to have one last night out before settling down — and specifically mentioning Andrew by name." He let his eyebrows do the rest of the work.
"Wait—" Monica's head came up from the kitchen doorway. "Rachel's getting engaged? She's getting engaged and she didn't even call me? We were best friends! I didn't even get a heads up about an engagement?"
"I had a lot to drink last night," Andrew said, mostly to the middle distance. He didn't have strong feelings about it himself, but having it discussed over lunch like sports commentary had a specific quality he could have done without.
"Ross." He turned before anyone could circle back to him. "Tell us what happened with you and Carol. Where do things stand?"
Ross's face did several things in quick succession. He looked at the table. He looked at Andrew with an expression of reluctant gratitude for the subject change. Then the gratitude curdled slightly as he realized what he was about to have to say.
"You all know Susan," he said finally.
"Chandler!" He turned immediately. "I only told you about this."
"Ross." Chandler spread his hands with genuine philosophical calm. "You can't control what Monica says. You've known her your whole life and you still tried. That's on you, not me."
Phoebe moved to the couch beside Ross and put a hand on his back, rubbing small circles the way you do with someone who needs to know someone is there. Monica came from the other direction and settled on his other side. Ross sat between them looking like a man at the bottom of a long week.
Chandler stood across the room with his arms folded, watching, with the expression of someone who had brought popcorn to the right movie.
Andrew sat in the chair and let the moment be what it was. Ross needed to be absorbed by his people right now, and his people were doing their jobs.
"Oh!" Joey sat up straight and pointed at Andrew, having apparently just completed a chain of reasoning. "So you were at the bar last night — and there was a woman who was about to get engaged—"
"That's right," Andrew said.
Chandler quietly put his face in his hand.
Ross had been managing his expression with some success until this moment. Having the situation narrated back to him by someone he'd met forty minutes ago added a specific texture to his suffering.
Joey looked between them, working something out. A slow smile spread across his face. "You guys are something else. What about you, Chandler — you got any stories like that?"
The color left Chandler's face in a way that was almost architectural.
The oven timer went off.
"Dinner!" Monica announced, with the decisive energy of someone who had decided a conversation was over and was exercising that decision. She disappeared into the kitchen.
"Dinner," Chandler echoed, following with the relief of a man being pulled from cold water. He shot Monica a look of genuine gratitude as he passed.
Joey was already on his feet, attention fully redirected. "Are we eating? Can we eat now?"
Andrew watched Joey's priorities reorganize instantly and completely at the mention of food, and felt a deep, uncomplicated appreciation for him.
The Rachel Green subject died quietly in the shuffle. Both Ross and Monica knew it wasn't gone — the name had weight, and weight didn't disappear just because the room moved on. But it was tabled, and tabled was enough for now.
They ate, and then they watched something on TV, and then Andrew checked the time and made his excuses.
Christie had woken up late after the previous night's chaos — breakfast around ten, which meant by two in the afternoon she'd been sitting in the apartment for several hours and would be hungry. He'd stayed longer than he'd planned and felt it.
He stopped at the grocery store on the way home and picked up what he needed for a simple dinner.
Christie was on the couch when he came in, watching TV with the quiet self-contained patience she carried everywhere. She looked up when the door opened.
"Uncle. You're back."
"Give me a few minutes," Andrew said, carrying the bags to the kitchen. "Dinner soon."
Christie was straightforward to cook for, which he appreciated. She had a small appetite, no strong dislikes, and a genuine enthusiasm for anything sweet, which made the preference easy to accommodate. Most importantly, she always responded to food with specific, honest feedback — the kind that was actually useful when you were developing something.
He'd gotten more practical input on his recipes from Christie in two weeks than from anyone else.
He put together a simple dinner, and she turned off the TV when she heard the plates and came to the table without being asked.
"Thank you," she said, and started eating quietly.
Andrew sat across from her and waited until she'd had a few bites.
"Christie."
She looked up. "What is it, Uncle Andrew?"
"You ready to tell me why you showed up at my door?" He kept his voice easy. "The real reason."
Christie set her fork down. She looked at the table for a moment — not evasive, more like someone choosing their words. When she looked up, her expression was direct.
"I don't want to be adopted," she said.
Andrew nodded slowly. He'd suspected this. "So you left before any placement happened."
Christie nodded. "I left before they matched me with anyone."
He exhaled quietly. At least there was no family out there wondering where she was, no situation he needed to untangle. "Okay. Then what's the plan?"
Christie looked at him. There was something in her expression he recognized as the preliminary to a thing she'd already decided — the look of someone who has worked out an argument in advance and is ready to make it.
"I saw your listing," she said. "The second bedroom. You're renting it out."
Andrew waited.
"I want to rent it."
He looked at her across the dinner table. Ten years old. Sat across from him with her hands folded and a small, specific smile that was not the smile of a child waiting to be told what happened next.
"You have money," he said slowly.
"I have money," she confirmed.
Andrew sat back in his chair.
He thought about the version of Christie he'd constructed in his head — the quiet, careful child who'd been through hard things and needed protecting. The girl who said be safe on the phone in a small voice and hugged him at the door.
That was all real. But it wasn't the whole picture. He'd met her for the first time when she was standing outside his apartment with a watchful, assessing steadiness that he'd filed away and then mostly forgotten.
He probably should not have forgotten that.
"Where did the money come from?" he asked.
Christie's smile stayed exactly where it was.
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